Farrago
by manic-intent
Summary: A Jarlaxle & Entreri adventure told from Entreri's long-suffering perspective. Intended to imitate life through a somewhat eccentric rose-colored glass. Will blithely ignore recent canon. Have fun reading.


Disclaimer: Characters that belong to RA Salvatore and TSR/etc should be fairly obvious (Drizzt, Jarlaxle, Entreri etc). I have not bothered to read TSR books for years after Servant of the Shard (after becoming addicted to Pratchett, Gaiman and several computer games). So if you really are a stickler for canon, treat this as an AU.

Chapter 1

The Curious Incident of the Cheese in the Daytime

"Drizzt…!"

We were enjoying (or rather, Jarlaxle was enjoying, while I was brooding over my hatred of any form of cooked fungus – mushrooms, _fungus_, whatever) when the dying man burst into camp and destroyed a perfectly good kettle of tea. Bloodshot eyes ignored me totally, focusing instead on my erstwhile and unwanted companion. Our breakfast tea had been sacrificed to wash off some of the grime from his livery, from which a portion of an unfamiliar crest was now visible. Judging from the highly tasteless amount of gold thread, it probably belonged to some important personage's house.

'Drizzt' put down his tea and balanced our last loaf of coarse bread on the rim before getting up from his rock with a dark elf's unseemly grace. "My good man! Why, whatever is…"

'His good man' pushed a sealed package towards Jarlaxle with an increasingly unsteady, shirt-torn arm. I decided absently that from the two arrows sticking from his back and the apparent volume of bleeding that he was probably going to expire soon and ruin the camp as well as the tea (as much as I might enjoy a bit of dramatics as much as any other, the thought of having to decamp and move so quickly overruled such sentiment, especially given the bad weather we've been having the past few days. Spring was such a terrible time of the year – rainy and cold.).

"Please… the Duke…" Unfortunately, before he could provide further details, such as which Duke and, more importantly, whether there would be a correspondingly princely fee involved, the man expired. Jarlaxle delicately caught the package before it interfered heavily with the remains of his breakfast.

"Most singular." We had spent a little too much time in Waterdeep, and Jarlaxle had (perhaps to annoy me) picked up some of the current speech mannerisms to 'flavor' his already fairly exotic accent. He inspected the somewhat grubby, oilpaper wrapped package, then the knotted silken thread that held it together, then finally the blue wax seal. "Do you recognize this?"

I shrugged as he held up the package for my inspection. "The crest? No. It isn't Calimport, though."

"Well. That eliminates one city from… many," Jarlaxle said dryly, glancing back down at the dead man. I had already judiciously moved my pack some distance away. Years of experience as a successful assassin had given me some knowledge of how much a man could bleed. I rescued the kettle as Jarlaxle began to go through the corpse's belongings, talking to himself in the dark elven tongue as he went. "A rapier – a little rusted… human not a soldier I see, doesn't take care of equipment… servant's livery well-made, higher placed servant… developing jaundice… family problems… shaved three days ago… wallet, traveling expenses… wrapped cheese."

This last he held up with a sense of accomplishment I could not understand, though that was a relatively normal occurrence. He paused when I failed to react adequately, and arched one fine silver eyebrow. I rolled my eyes and stared up at the sky. The breaking sunlight was already beginning to throw shadows from Jarlaxle's wide-brimmed hat over keen dark eyes. As much as he had forgone his eye patch for the sake of his 'disguise' as well as the necessity of wearing chain mail, (much) less jewelry, a (much) less lurid cloak and two scimitars, nothing I could reasonably say could convince him about the hat or the lack of hair. At first I'd thought nobody would conceivably believe he was Drizzt, but it turned out that people saw the scimitars and assumed everything else.

Finally, I gave in, since it looked like Jarlaxle would happily wait there all day for me to acknowledge the cheese. "What about it?"

"The wrapping, old friend," Jarlaxle drawled. I squinted, and could just make out a fading woodblock print of an obese chicken with scribbling around it. "It says… 'The Graceful Swan'."

It was the way he said it – with the utmost seriousness – that made me stifle a burp of laughter. Jarlaxle raised both eyebrows in rebuke, though the edges of his eyes crinkled a little in amusement. I have a suspicion the mercenary had taken it upon himself to try and revive my sense of humor. "So?" I asked.

"We can get some clues from the last place this poor man had visited," Jarlaxle said reasonably, inclining his head at the body. "I do believe this other line here says 'Ambervi'… which is a town on our map to our east.

"And why do you… you mean you actually intend to deliver this package?" A sudden sinking feeling. Jarlaxle's adventures never came up to anything good, especially for a semi-retired assassin on vacation from his workplace.

"Why not?" Jarlaxle asked innocently.

"The last time you said that, we were savaged by a pack of magically altered crocodile wolves," I reminded him.

"Ah, but that was _last_ time."

"And the last time I had that reassurance, we were savaged by a flock of vampire seagulls."

Jarlaxle contrived to look injured. "I have to admit the incident might have developed a little radically…"

I was reproachfully silent. The seagulls had left fang marks on my leather shoulderpads that I knew were permanent, despite my best efforts. Jarlaxle appeared to overlook this, humming to himself as he finished his breakfast and proceeded to clear up the camp, delicately avoiding the pool of blood. The soft humming always indicated that he had made up his mind and what was more, intended to drag me along with him. Muttering a few choice curses in a few human tongues under my breath, I went to soothe the horses, which were restless and upset by the scent of blood and death.

--

It turned out that Ambervi was actually only a day's ride from camp, with the trail thankfully free from strange animals and stupid bandits, who would jump out of bushes, come to a dead halt when noticing Jarlaxle's skin color and scimitars, then respectfully wish 'Master Drizzt' a good day and pretend to be passing merchants ('oh, _this_ drawn sword? Haha, Jim an' I were only inspecting it, sir, yes sir…'). The damned elf was obviously enjoying the attention, oddly enough – it wasn't as though he was without name in the Underdark as himself, after all, if he liked ill gotten fame that much. For myself, I just wished the informed unwashed public would stop assuming that I was Wulfgar. I know it makes sense… a human accompanying Drizzt was likely to be his 'friend' the giant ape barbarian, but really, do I even remotely look like him? It had to be the rewrite effect of the scimitars on their tiny little minds.

Admittedly, Jarlaxle might be hard pressed to explain whom the gent with the sun-darkened skin and the preference for heavy elbow-length gloves to cover a certain gauntlet would be… but I wouldn't put it beyond him.

The discovery of the cheap abuse of communications magic such that newsprints could be sent to even the most remote of villages (I understood it vaguely as the Faerun human leaders' decision to move ponderously towards better education, for reasons known only to themselves) had placed bards in a precarious position. Once the only way with which small villages would hear about the outside world, it was a little hard to start one's repertoire now – there would always be somebody in the back who would yell 'yeah, now let's 'ear somethin' about the 'errli merder! 'Oo did it?' Bards had supposedly fought back in some way in one of the bigger cities, but now the expression on their faces in remote little villages was one of my few remaining entertainments after agreeing to embark on this indeterminable journey with Jarlaxle. In any case, newsprints had made our 'adventuring' a lot easier, with even the tiniest village knowing about Drizzt and his appearance. More than anything my supposed archenemy had done, I think it was the scandal about the Lady of Silverymoon that had ensured his notoriety.

We had reached Ambervi a little before nightfall, and were observing one such down and out bard leave the village in disgrace. The villagers watching, satisfied with their superior peasant knowledge and not wanting to waste any more perfectly good tomatoes and crab apples, didn't give us a glance as they returned to the tavern and their watered-down carousing.

"So, we first have to find out where the cheese was sold," Jarlaxle said brightly, ignoring the blinding fact that the shops in this 'village' – about a mud path with a few decrepit excuses for housing shambling along it – if there were any, were closed for the night. The high-pitched screech of a bat could be heard overhead, and a cold draft plucked at our cloaks. "Maybe if we take a look at each quaint abode we can garner a few clues."

"Let's try the inn," I suggested, trying not to sound too enthusiastic. The look of the clouds before the sun had set hinted at incoming rain, and I would rather have a bug-filled, dry bed than a bug-filled, sodden tent. Jarlaxle adjusted his hat, considering my words a little too obviously, implying that the elf wasn't about to make a seedy town and closed shops hamper his fun at my expense.

"All right," His tone of jarring cheerfulness was beginning to worry me. Nodding curtly, I wheeled my horse towards the rather rowdy building, circling it until I found the 'stable' – more like an enlarged outhouse reeking of animal waste. I wouldn't have put horse stealing too far from the mind of the wizened, filthy man who emerged from a stall to take our horses, but the sight of the dark elf was enough to make him stammer a welcome and move both steeds into the less grimy stalls, promising proper feed and oats, at that. It seemed an impossible promise given the look of our surroundings, but I decided not to argue the point.

Preening, 'Drizzt' led me into the inn – which was actually just a desk in a room with a staircase upwards to the rooms. A fat, balding man in a clean shirt and pants sat at the desk, going through a thick ledger. Bushy brown eyebrows seemed utterly at odds with the few strands of brown hair left on his palate that crawled valiantly over the shiny dome, as he glanced up at us. "Rooms for the night, good sirs?" His little eyes widened and he shot to his feet – a feat for him, I would have thought – at the sight of Jarlaxle. "You're… you're that elf in the noows! Drizzt! And…" A glance at me, and I braced myself, "And you've got to be his friend Wulfgar!"

I curbed my murderous instinct and stifled a sigh as Jarlaxle discussed Drizzt's latest 'adventure' with the innkeeper. Finally, he got to the point about his cheese, instead of the rooms that I was longing for.

The fat innkeeper took the package in his pudgy hands and nodded sagely. "Why, it's from Mistress Elly's farm, just a wee bit up the road from here. She does a _wicked_ cheese, she does. Why'd you ask?"

"Well, we met a man today who had this, but he was too much in a hurry to give us the address," Jarlaxle said smoothly. "Though… do you remember anything about that man in livery? Just out of curiosity?" A wink and a generous tip on the ledger book, which disappeared quickly into the innkeeper's clothes.

"Livery? Oh… you mean in nobb's servant clothes. Yeah, he was here only two days ago, stayed a bit, drank with the boys and had a few tumbles with Maisie. Said he was employed by a Duke, and was very proud about it, yeah." The innkeeper's voice turned morbidly gleeful. "Why, what'd he do? 'Oo'd he kill?"

"Would you happen to know which Duke?" Jarlaxle inquired, "Or know anybody who might?"

"Naw, we don't know anything about the big nobs hereabouts, other than the landlord Squire Easton, he lives a bit north of here in the woods. Don't want to be caught with any of us common folk. I think you'd have better luck in Umberton though, the old Squire ain't too much in touch with the real world now. Me brother has an inn in Umberton, and the loremaster in the townhouse there keeps records." The innkeeper paused, and grinned. "'Sides, I heard Maisie say something about that nobb's man headed to Umberton next."

"Thank you," Jarlaxle said with a slight and whimsical bow, and then he shot me a sidelong glance and a grin. "And now, I do believe my old friend Wulfgar would like to know if you have a room free."

"A room with two beds… yeah, here's the keys." The innkeeper reached into the drawer, and then dropped a set of rusting keys on the desk, before winking at 'Drizzt'. "Keeping an eye on him, are you?" The man then had the temerity to address me, his obsequiousness barely veiling his impertinence. "Begging your pardon of course… you shouldn't cheat on your poor missus like that. Bad enough for a woman who keeps your house, worse for a woman who can handle herself, you know what they say…"

"Quite," I said, as frostily as I could. Receiving marital advice regarding Catti-Brie was a continuing annoyance that never lost its sting. I like my women less buxom. Catti-Brie's growing 'prosperity' in that aspect as she aged never ceased to make me wonder why she didn't fall over each time she walked.

--

Dinner was on the house, at least. Pleading weariness, I finished the meal of boiled cabbage and overspiced sausage as quickly as I could so as to leave my companion to his own devices – no doubt a melodramatic re-enactment of one of 'Drizzt's' adventures. 'Escape from Menzoberranzan', perhaps, or 'Invasion of Mithril Hall', where he would abuse his natural agility and acrobatic ability. Myself, I've always had a hard time eluding the various overripe barmaids who fancied their place in another Wulfgar extramarital scandal that would place their names on the 'noows'. Missing out on the rounds of watered ale that Jarlaxle's energetic form of story telling would bring would not be too much of a tragedy…

That there was somebody in our room was readily apparent when I ascended the creaking stairs, evaded a rat and avoided the damp patches on the corridor between the inn's accommodations. Judging from the breathing, anyway, it was also apparent that the occupant was female. This was unfortunately a situation that 'Wulfgar' had been much acquainted with ever since Drizzt and friends developed a celebrity cult following. Thankfully, this 'cult', made up mostly of commoners and the middle class, never really thought to question why we could be halfway across the continent from Drizzt's latest adventure.

I opened the door and heard the woman's breath hitch a notch. A peasant woman, anyway, her too-'prosperous' form threatening to spill from the ridiculous garment she had changed into (rather resembled a white sackcloth), one callused hand folded over her… front. It took a moment for me to remember that she was the barmaid in the tavern downstairs. Maisie, I think her name was. "Out." I said curtly, jerking a thumb at the door.

My expression of clear disinterest seemed to confuse her for a moment. "But Master Wulfgar…" her voice became breathy, or wheezy, even. "Don't you…"

"No, I'm tired, and I was of the opinion that these rooms were unoccupied," I replied, curbing my irritation at the name. "Out."

"Oh, but I like your hammer…" the woman was becoming exasperating – she got to her feet and advanced into my personal space, trailing her fingers on my hip. "Wherever did you hide it?"

I grabbed her hand firmly as she moved fingers to a place where one certainly would not hide a warhammer, reminding myself quietly to somehow buy or find a warhammer, at that. Wulfgar's weapon was as famous as himself, and if I had to keep this preposterous disguise then at least make it believable. "That, woman, is not for people to see," I said shortly, moving her bodily to the door. "And least of all yourself. Now I need my rest. So, out."

"You wouldn't want a scene, would you Master Wulfgar?" The little minx actually thought she could blackmail me! With as little effort and time as required, I made a dagger – not the jeweled one, unfortunately, that still held its own fame and called too much attention – appear over her neck, and smiled.

"As much as it's ungentlemanly to threaten a woman, I'm technically a barbarian," I said slowly and carefully. "And I don't like trouble when I'm tired. Understand?"

"Yes," she said, her eyes fixed on as much as the blade as she could see.

"So, you'd go away quietly and not mention meeting me to anybody. Understand?"

"Yes."

When the creature was finally gone, I forced the aged window open and closed the door, waiting for the cold breeze to remove the scent of cheap perfume, and not for the first time wondered why I hadn't returned to Calimport. It was Jarlaxle, I think. He had this air about him that always made people follow him to see what sort of escapade he would locate next. Still, I was curious why he hadn't thought of returning to the Underdark. Surely he preferred luxury to sodden camps and straw beds. I'd placed the issue to him before, but his answers had always been characteristically cryptic.

The roars of merriment one floor down made it hard to fall into the semi-alert slumber that passed for my sleep. Jarlaxle had probably progressed to posturing on a table…

--

The morning was freezing, and the rain held a grim determination about it. Jarlaxle, who had returned sometime late last night, and unfairly as an elf only required four hours of meditation, was already wide awake when I roused myself. I noted that he was sampling the wrapped cheese thoughtfully as though it held the secret of the multiverse. It looked like any other aged cheddar to me, at least, as I did a bit of cleaning up with the provided basin of suspicious water. Keeping regular hours instead of nocturnal ones still felt odd even after so many months, and it took an effort to start a conversation, partly because a silent and thoughtful Jarlaxle was unnerving.

"I take it you still find something significant in it?" I asked, unable to restrain my sarcasm. Amazingly enough, the mysterious package, sitting on the bed next to Jarlaxle, was still unopened.

Apparently so, anyway. I wouldn't have put it beyond Jarlaxle to find a way around the wax seal.

"Oh yes," Jarlaxle nodded, purposefully oblivious, pointing at the small basket of bread on the single chair solemnly. "With that, it'd make us a fine breakfast."

--

It was mid morning when we found the farm in question. The few depressed cows in the penned field weren't a good indication of the place's identity, and we would have walked past it if not for Jarlaxle's discovery of a faded, hand-drawn wooden sign on the ground of a bloated chicken. We tied our horses to one of the withering apple trees and walked to the farmhouse, followed by a scruffy black mongrel with a crossbreed's intelligence that made certain only to bark threateningly when out of kicking range. The rain made the muddy grass even patchier, and I was bitterly considering the damage to my boots as we stood on the hewn porch of the thatched farmhouse, Jarlaxle humming softly to himself as he knocked on the door.

The mongrel found a dry spot under a bush and commenced somewhat nervously to tell the world what he thought of our intrusion into his territory, though without another farm in sight it was probably useless.

After a long time and several knocks, it was opened partway by a thin old woman dressed in a fiercely pink apron and a contrastingly dull utilitarian dress, and large, heavy boots. She was also wielding a large cleaver that looked too heavy for her spindly, wrinkled arms. Her stringy white hair was caught in an untidy bun, and wrinkles had joined forces with crow's feet to make her weathered face look like an irrigation network. "Yes?"

"Are you Mistress Elly?" Jarlaxle asked genially, ignoring the weapon and her suspicious glance. "I'm here to ask you whether you recognize this." He held up the paper that had recently contained our breakfast.

The old woman gave it a cursory glance and narrowed her watery blue eyes. "That's one o' mine, yes. I make good cheese. What about it?"

"Would you remember the fellow you sold this to?" Jarlaxle asked. The door began to close, until he held up one gold coin.

The woman eyed it thoughtfully. "It looks like the two of you are gents, after all. What does a dark elf want to know?"

"Allow me to introduce myself. I am Drizzt Do'Urden," Jarlaxle began grandly, but was cut off by the woman.

"No you ain't. I seen Drizzt before in Silverymoon when I was younger… I was sending cheese to me sister who was still alive in those days. And you don't look like him."

I had the pleasure of seeing Jarlaxle taken momentarily aback. "Well, it seems you are a lot better informed, Lady," he finally settled for charm over dissimulation. "There are more of your kind who would say an elf looks like any other."

"Aye, an old woman needs to look after herself," she said coolly, not particularly impressed with his flattery. "You'd be looking for the other gent in the vest with the golden bird on it, eh?"

"We do know he's headed for Umberton, but thought it would be good to speak to everybody who had some acquaintance with him here," Jarlaxle said blithely.

"Got himself into a mess, did he."

"In a sense."

"Did you make that mess?"

"No, but he prevailed on us to help him deliver something, but didn't give us the name of his master," Jarlaxle said, not embroidering the truth for once. Perhaps he didn't think the old woman worth the effort.

"Well, I can't tell you much, other than he gave me more than was worth for the cheese, and he'd asked the villagers where the best cheese could be had in Ambervi," the old woman said, chewing her lip.

"Truly? That is very interesting," Jarlaxle said thoughtfully, glancing at me as though he thought I had shared in his revelation. I shrugged at him, bored and uncomfortable. The roof wasn't doing a good job of keeping the rain off the porch.

"And he said… after a bit of a sample, that it was worth 'adorning the table of the Duke of Esterces himself'," the old woman recited proudly. "I've got a recipe that's been passed down through my family, I have."

"The Duke of Esterces…" Jarlaxle murmured thoughtfully, then smiled winningly and handed the old woman two gold coins. "Would that pay for one of your delightful cheeses to take with us on the road?"

When we got back to the horses, the new wrapped cheese placed in a saddlebag, I glanced at my companion. "He might just have been mentioning Esterces without that man being his master."

The little I had looked in the news had hinted at the young Duke of Esterces' growing military ambitions to expand his already lucrative duchy, so much at odds with his father's only ambitions towards improving the cultivation of tulips. It was probably only the Duke's excessive lifestyle that managed to make such ambitions headlines. At the moment, I couldn't say I liked the idea, remote as it was, of getting embroiled in the Duke's ambitions. Open war was not a good place for an assassin to be.

"Or, he might not," Jarlaxle said, with his irritating self-assured grin, and began to hum.


End file.
